


THE PROOF is in the POISON

by BlakeFrost



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A/U, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 10:58:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 14,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13270014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlakeFrost/pseuds/BlakeFrost
Summary: John meets Sherlock in an entirely different manner than in the canon of BBC's Sherlock.  Sherlock deduces John.  John helps Sherlock solve a crime.  (Yes, they are deaths by poisonings, but different poison, different symptoms, different circumstances, different suspects, and different murderer).  Afterwards, they become flatmates.





	1. Chapitre Un

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Sherlock-ian Things FB group's Story Prompt Challenge, for Challenge #1 -Alternate ways Sherlock and John could have met. It has a lot of familiar characters, some familiar scenes, and quite a few familiar lines. But the overall plot line is entirely original.
> 
> Obviously, I did not create any of the established characters, scenarios, details, or lines from either the Sherlock BBC or ACD canons which are used herein.

**__ ** **_ THE PROOF is in the POISON _ **

**by** **_Blake Frost_ **

 

_London, England.  July 25, 2010_

 

            On a warm, yet somewhat cloudy afternoon, Dr. John H. Watson walked out of his therapist’s home office.  He intended to hail a taxi and return for the rest of the night to his motel room.  It was the place that he had called home since being discharged from the army.  The room was small, cramped, and in need of some repair.  But it was all that he could afford on the less than substantial pension that he was receiving.  However, as the taxi pulled over, he changed his mind.  Instead of heading home, he directed the driver to take him to The Sea Potato, a cozy little cafe nearby the motel.

            As he exited the taxi, Dr. Watson spied a rack of newspapers in front of the cafe.  Snagging one, he folded it and tucked it under his arm.  Inside, he perused the classifieds section of the newspaper while waiting for his fish and chips to arrive.

            Although it would have been cheaper to reside elsewhere, John could not bear the thought of living anywhere but London.  And he could not (or perhaps would not) ask his sister Harry for any help.  John and Harry never did get on.  But they had had a bad falling out over her drinking after she left her wife three months earlier.  So he scanned the “Help Wanted” ads, hoping to find a job to supplement his income.  However, finding no suitable jobs, he turned next to the housing ads.

            Unfortunately, Dr. Watson had no luck finding an affordable flat in a decent area.  So he selected a few studio apartments which were more within his current budget.  After finishing his meal, he decided not to walk back to his room.  Instead, he left the cafe and caught a taxi to the first address on his list of possible housing choices.

 

*************

 

Arriving at his destination, John found himself in a bad part of town.  Instinctively, his hand went to his right jacket pocket.  Good, he had brought his gun.  He had been shot while serving in Afghanistan.  Consequently, he walked with a slight limp and relied on a cane for support.  So it would come as no surprise if someone, believing that he was an easy target, tried to mug him.

Dr. Watson checked the number of the landlord’s apartment.  He then turned to proceed up the stairs and into the building.  But just as he did so, he saw something that made him hesitate and reconsider his choice.  A body, crumpled up and unmoving, lay across several of the steps.

John was somewhat put-off by the idea of living in a neighborhood where people lay randomly about.  He pondered whether to proceed, or to move on to the next location on his list.  A few used hypodermic needles were strewn along the curb of the street near the stairs.  Could this be a drug user in the middle of a high?  Or was this a dead body, a passed-out drunkard, a homeless person looking for a place to sleep?  Was it a man or a woman?

Suddenly, Dr. Watson was startled by a movement from the crumpled up form.  The figure shuddered and let out a loud groan.  The person was alive.  As a doctor, he could not bring himself to just walk away without at least trying to help.  Sitting down on a step, he placed a hand on the figure’s shoulder.  “Are you alright?” he asked.

The person, a man of no more than thirty years old, was unresponsive at first.  Then he sat up abruptly and knocked John’s hand off of his shoulder.  “Who are you?  What are you doing here?” he demanded, before collapsing back onto the stairs.

Unperturbed, Dr. Watson reached back out and removed the man’s scarf.  He checked his pulse over his carotid artery and found it to be irregular.  He then put the back of his hand to his patient’s forehead.  The man was sweating and appeared feverish.  Looking at his patient’s eyes, he saw that his pupils were constricted nearly to the size of pinpoints.  In short, his patient showed signs that he was suffering from an overdose of opioids.

John pulled out his mobile phone and dialed 999 to call for an ambulance.  As he waited for them to arrive, he observed the man’s appearance.  He was very slim, which was indicative of possible chronic opioid use.  Yet he was relatively well-kempt and appeared otherwise healthy.  Furthermore, he was dressed quite nicely in a suit, and also wore a rather expensive looking long coat and decent shoes.  Overall, he just did not look like a typical homeless person or drug addict.  So what was he doing in an area such as this?

When emergency medical services arrived, Dr. Watson attempted to help his patient to his feet.  But the man became combative, pushing him away and shouting at him.  “What do you want from me? Get your hands off of me!” he yelled.  He then began to rise to his feet, but doubled over in pain and fell back onto the stairs.  Screwing up his eyes, he clutched his stomach and curled up into the fetal position.

The paramedic and EMT managed to lift the man up by his arms.  He had gone limp again, and had to be guided over to the waiting stretcher.  After securing him down and loading him up, they prepared to take him to the hospital.

“Which hospital are you taking him to?” asked John.

“The closest one to here is Bart’s,” the paramedic replied.

“I’d like to ride with him, then, if you don’t mind.”

The paramedic agreed, and Dr. Watson climbed into the back of the ambulance.  As they got underway, the paramedic asked, “Are you family?”

“No,” said John, “I don’t even know him.  I just found him here like this.”

“Then why do you care? Why try to help him? Why even bother calling for us?”

At first, Dr. Watson was perplexed and taken aback by these questions.  But then he thought that maybe these EMS workers were genuinely surprised that someone actually cared enough to help.  Perhaps they weren’t expecting anybody from this area to show any concern for the welfare of others.  After all, who in their right mind would want to go with an apparent unknown indigent to the hospital?  So, in reply, he simply said, “Because I’m a doctor.”

The paramedic seemed satisfied with his answer, and they continued on to the hospital in relative silence.  The only sound was the wail of the ambulance’s siren and the occasional noises from the vital signs monitors.

 

*************


	2. Chapitre Deux

 Upon arrival at Bart’s, the man, who had passed out again, was taken to the A&E department.  John and the two EMS workers accompanied him.

After transferring the patient to one of the beds, the EMS workers departed.  A nurse checked the man’s blood pressure and hooked him up to a cardiac monitor.  Someone from admitting came over to talk to Dr. Watson.

“Excuse me, but do you have all of his information?”  She asked.

“No, sorry,” he replied.  But I don’t even know his name.”  He paused.  “Hang on a minute.”  He went over to the man’s bedside.  “Did he have any personal effects?” he asked one of the nurses.  The nurse indicated the chair next to the bed, on the back of which was the patient’s coat.  The right coat pocket contained some crumpled up bills and a wad of paper, but no wallet.  The left coat pocket held a mobile phone.  John turned on the phone screen, only to find that the phone was locked by a password.

Dr. Watson told the woman from admitting that the patient had no ID card or other identifying information.  He then returned to the man’s bedside.  The patient had somewhat roused from his state of drowsiness.  He was now mumbling to himself as John came over still holding the man’s mobile phone.  “Is there anybody that I can call for you?” John asked him.

Somewhat incoherently, the patient said, “Redbeard.”

Dr. Watson was about to dismiss the comment as the product of a delirious mind.  But then it occurred to him that perhaps this was the password to the man’s phone.  Trying it and finding it successful, he then scrolled through the phone’s contact list.  Unfortunately, none of the names were listed as family members.  He then turned to the call logs.  One number, belonging to a Mycroft Holmes, stood out as being the number that most frequently called in.  Using the phone, he called the number.  Since no one answered on the other end of the line, he left a brief voice mail message.

John waited with the patient, hoping that Mr. Holmes would stop by the hospital.   Or in the least that he would call back and relay any pertinent information.  At some point, a doctor came over.

“Excuse me, sir,” said the doctor, “but do you happen to know any of his medical history?”

“I’m sorry, no, I don’t,” Dr. Watson replied.  “I’ve only just met him.”

“Well,” said the doctor, “unfortunately I can’t release any information about his condition to you.  Hopefully a family member can show up and help fill in the blanks.”

John had been watching the readings and monitors himself, of course.  And, since he was a physician, he already had a fairly good idea as to what the man’s condition was.  However, he did not consider this particularly relevant for the doctor to know.  So instead, he nodded his head and said, “I understand.”

A little while later, a rather official looking gentleman carrying an umbrella walked into the A&E department.  He had an air about him as if he were there on a matter of quite some importance.  He stopped and spoke with one of the nurses, who then led him over to the patient.

Looking down at the man, he bent and put a hand on his shoulder.  Speaking softly, almost inaudibly, he said, “Oh, Sherlock, what have you done to yourself this time?”  Straightening up, he turned around to address Doctor Watson.  “Are you the one who found him?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, I am,” John replied.  “I’m John Watson.  And are you the one I called?  Are you Mycroft Holmes?”

“Yes.  And this is my younger brother, Sherlock.  I’m sorry if his transgressions have ruined your day.  He has…a bit of a problem that can be difficult to deal with sometimes.  Still, I thank you for helping out.”

Just then, Sherlock Holmes began muttering again.  “Victor!” he cried out.  “Victor, where are you?”

Dr. Watson turned to Mycroft and said, “Victor.  Does that name mean anything to you?”

“No, not at all,” answered the elder Holmes brother.  “It’s probably just some delusion caused by the drugs.”  He turned away, but John thought that he could see a haunted look on his face.  “Thank you again,” continued Mycroft, “but I can take it from here.”

“I’m just glad that I was there to help,” said Dr. Watson.  “I would appreciate it if you could call me tomorrow and update me about how he’s doing.”  Writing his mobile phone number down on a scrap of paper, he handed it to Mycroft.  The elder Mr. Holmes took the paper without a word, and with his back still turned.

John then left the A&E department and headed outside to get a taxi back home.

 

*************

 

As Dr. Watson exited the hospital, he passed in the doorway a rather portly looking bespectacled gentleman wearing a suit and a short trench coat.  “John Watson!” the man called out.

John turned around.  “Mike Stamford?  Is that you?” he asked, coming back into the building.

Dr. Watson and Stamford chatted as they walked through the corridors of the hospital.  They reminisced about their time training together at Bart’s.  John told Mike about how he had become an army doctor and had been injured during a battle.  Mike told John that he was now a professor teaching students at the hospital.  They eventually arrived at a small laboratory, where John mused about how different things were from his time there.

Stamford looked about the room but saw no one else.  “Well I wanted to introduce you to a friend of mine,” he said.  “He spends a lot of time tinkering around in this lab.  But he doesn’t appear to be here like he usually is.”

A door on the opposite side of the lab opened, and a petite brunette in a lab coat entered.  “Dr. Hooper,” Mike said in greeting.  Turning to John, he said, “Dr. Watson, this is Dr. Molly Hooper.  She’s a pathologist down in the mortuary here.”  Turning back to Molly, he said, “Dr. Hooper, this is Dr. John Watson, an old mate of mine.”

John and Molly shook hands and nodded politely at each other.  Then they said their “Nice to meet yous” and “How do you dos.”

After greetings were exchanged, Dr. Hooper said to Stamford, “I’m here looking for Sherlock.  He was supposed to meet me in the mortuary to do one of his little experiments.  Have you seen him?”

“No, I haven’t,” he answered.  “In fact, I was here looking for him myself.”

Dr. Watson just stood there a moment before he spoke.  “Do you mean Sherlock Holmes?” he asked.

Molly and Mike traded puzzled glances.  “Yes,” said Mike.  “Do you know him? Have you two met already?”

“Sort of,” said John.  He then explained the situation, ending with, “He’s still down in the A&E department.  He’s with his brother, Mycroft.  I had just come from there before I ran into you.”

Molly gasped as her hands flew to her mouth.  “Oh my god!” she exclaimed.  She then ran out of the room and headed towards the A&E department.

“If you don’t mind,” Mike said, “I think I’ll go down there to check up on him as well.”  John nodded his assent, and Mike went out the door to follow Molly.

John, having trained at Bart’s, easily found his own way back out of the hospital.  Once outside, he caught a taxi, and finally headed home.

 

*************


	3. Chapitre Trois

Dr. Watson spent another fitful night tossing and turning, trying to sleep.  When he could manage to sleep, his dreams were filled with horrific memories.  His time serving as a physician on the battlefield during the war in Afghanistan had been fraught with danger.  The next morning he woke up in a cold sweat, crying from the painful flashbacks.  It was something that he had to endure over and over again, every time he closed his eyes.

He sat at the little table in his motel room with a mug of tea and an apple for breakfast.  He was planning on going back out to look into more rooms for rent.  However, as he was getting ready, there was a knock on his door.  Thinking it might be the motel manager needing to tell him something, John opened the door.  He then stood staring, somewhat dumbfounded, at the person on the other side of the door.

“Mr. Holmes, how --,” he began to say.

“Sherlock, please,” came the reply.

“Well – won’t you come in?” asked John.

Sherlock Holmes stepped into the room, but did not take the seat that John offered to him.  Instead, he stood there with his hands clasped together behind his back.

“So,” asked John, who had also remained standing, “how are you feeling today?  You look much better than when I last saw you.”

“I’m feeling much better,” Sherlock replied.  “I do apologize for ruining your flat-hunting yesterday.  I hope that I wasn’t too much trouble.”  Here, he hesitated.  “It’s just that -- Well, I usually don’t have any problems with controlled usage.”

Not wanting to intrude on any of Sherlock’s personal issues, John changed the subject.  “How on earth did you know where to find me?” he asked him.  “I only gave your brother my mobile phone number.”

“It was quite simple, really.  Your haircut and the way you hold yourself say military.  The way that you attended to me says that you’ve had medical training.  Your ease of reading the equipment says that you have more than a passing familiarity with it.  Your comfortableness in the surroundings of Bart’s ER says that you did some of your medical training there.  The way that you handled the circumstances says that you’ve been in stressful situations before.  The fact that you didn’t just walk away and leave me behind shows that you have a strong moral code.  Not only that, but also that you rode with me to the hospital and stayed by my side.  You’ve been in the position before where you’ve had to treat friends and others who depended on you to save their lives.  So you’re an army doctor.  Obvious.”

John managed a, “Yes, but --,” before Sherlock began speaking again.

Sherlock indicated John’s cane, which had been left hooked over the back of a chair.  “You walk with a bad limp, but prefer to stand rather than to sit,” he said.  “So your limp is at least partly psychosomatic.  The original circumstances of your injury had to have been traumatic.  You were wounded in action, then.  Your injury must have led to you being discharged from the army.  You’re receiving a pension from the army, but it must not be very much.  There aren’t many places in London that a man trying to survive on an army pension can afford to live.  I checked the most likely of these places, looking for anyone who fit your description.  And here I am.”

John stood there in stunned silence for a moment.  When he finally spoke, he asked, “How did you know that I was out flat-hunting?”

“You’re currently staying in a tiny motel room.  Of course you’d want to find a bigger place to stay.  But you don’t have enough income to get a flat in a better area.  So that’s why you were out looking to possibly rent one in a cheaper area.  And that includes the neighborhood in which you found me.”

“That was amazing,” said John.

“Really?  That’s not what most people say.”

“Which is?”

“’Piss off!’”.

As Sherlock and John exchanged grins, there came another knock on the door.  “Who could it be this time?” John wondered.  He opened the door, revealing a somewhat confused looking, greying, middle aged-gentleman.

Before John could ask the visitor anything, Sherlock spoke up from behind him.  “Ah!  Detective Inspector Lestrade!  There you are.”  John turned and gave him a perplexed look.  “Oh, sorry, John,” he said apologetically.  “I hope you don’t mind.  But I told Lestrade that he could find me here if he needed me.”  Addressing the D.I. again, he said, “Now, what is it that you need me for this time?”

Lestrade stepped into the room, closing the door behind him.  “Well, you know all the stuff that’s been reported in the news about the mysterious deaths?  We’ve identified the cause.  They all suffered from poisoning by something called tetrodotoxin, also known as TTX.  It’s commonly found in Japanese puffer fish.  Problem is, none of the victims had eaten any puffer fish prior to their deaths.  At least not that we know of.  It’s driving me nuts trying to figure out how and when they were poisoned.  They don’t seem to have any connection to each other.  And none of them even ate in any restaurants that serve the fish, so we can probably rule out cross-contamination.”

 “I’ll take the case,” said Sherlock.  “And if there’s anything else, you know where to find me.”

“Thank you,” said Lestrade, nodding politely to John before exiting.

Sherlock held a serious expression until the door closed behind Lestrade.  Then he leapt into the air and started whirling about the room giddily.  “Brilliant! Yes!  Four mysterious poisoning deaths!  Oh, it’s Christmas!” he exclaimed excitedly. 

John looked at Sherlock with a mixture of shock and confusion on his face.  “Who are you?  What do you do?  And why would the police be coming to you for help?  Are you some sort of private detective?”

“I’m a consulting detective.  It means that when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me.”

“Oh, yeah, of course, a consulting detective.  That explains everything.”   John tried his best to look as if he understood what Sherlock was talking about.  But the truth was that he had no idea what a consulting detective was.  In fact, he had never even heard the term before.

“Well, I best be off,” Sherlock said suddenly, interrupting John’s moment of confusion.  “This case isn’t going to solve itself.  Care to join me, John?”

“Join you where?  And to do what?”

“The mortuary at Bart’s.  I need to examine some bodies.  You’re a medical man.  I could use your help.  An outside eye is very useful to me.  Somebody to give me a second opinion.”  John looked at him quizzically.  “It might be fun,” said Sherlock.

Shooting Sherlock an annoyed and somewhat angry look, John snapped, “Fun?  There’s nothing fun about people dying, Sherlock!”

Seemingly oblivious to John’s irritation, Sherlock goaded him again.  “You’re a doctor who went to war.  You’re abnormally attracted to dangerous situations.  You were discharged from the army because of your injury.  You must be getting a little bored by now.”  He indicated the chair on which rested John’s cane.  “Now,” he said, “you could come with me, or you could just sit there and watch telly.”

“Damn it!” John swore, as he grabbed his cane and followed Sherlock out the door.


	4. Chapitre Quatre

When Sherlock and John arrived at Bart’s mortuary, Dr. Hooper had the bodies of the four poisoning victims laid out.  Each was on an autopsy table, covered by a white sheet.  A fifth sheet-covered body lay on a table nearby.

“Dr. John Watson,” said Sherlock, as they entered the room, “This is Dr. Molly Hooper.”

“Yes, we’ve met,” John said.  Sherlock gave him a questioning look.

“Don’t you remember, Sherlock?” asked Molly.  “Mike mentioned it to you when we came to visit you last night.  John here is the one who told us that you were in hospital.”

“We met just yesterday,” John added.  “I ran into Mike as I was leaving the hospital.  He’s an old mate of mine.  We studied together here at Bart’s.  He took me up to the lab expecting to find you.  Then Molly came in looking for you as well.  But of course, you weren’t there.  So when Molly mentioned you by name, I told them where you were.”

“I’m sorry,” said Sherlock, “but I don’t remember Mike telling me anything at all.  In fact, I don’t very remember much about Molly and Mike being there in the A&E department with me.”  He gazed off into space, as if trying to pull a memory from wherever it was lost to.  Suddenly, his attention snapped back to reality and the present time.  “There’s been a fifth victim, then?” he asked.

“Suspected victim,” replied Molly.  “Toxicology reports won’t be in for a while.  But the symptoms the victim experienced prior to her death are the same as the others.”  She inclined her head towards the four known victims.  Then she walked over to the fifth body and folded the top of the sheet down.  The body was that of a young woman with long straight blond hair and blue eyes.

John and Sherlock walked over to the autopsy table.  John noticed a dried yellowish-green substance around the edges of the woman’s mouth.  Most likely vomitus, he thought.  Turning to Dr. Hooper, he asked, “She hasn’t been cleaned yet, then?”

“No,” answered Molly.  “She’s just arrived.  I haven’t even had the chance to do an external examination yet.”

“Who is she?” asked Sherlock, who up until now had been quietly observing the woman’s face.  He tilted his head this way and that as if he were lost in thought.

Molly picked up a clipboard from the counter behind the body and read off the deceased woman’s details.  “Isla Taylor.  Caucasian female.  Eighteen years old.  Five feet, seven inches tall.  One-hundred-thirty-five pounds.  She was a student over at Slade School of Fine Art.  Classmates say that she collapsed in the middle of a lecture.  Her roommate said that she had been feeling ill just prior to leaving for class.  She thought she had picked up a stomach bug.  She was pronounced dead by paramedics.”

Sherlock closed his eyes in concentration as the recorded details of the four confirmed victims flashed through his mind.

Victim #1:  Olivia Davies.  Pale-skinned Caucasian female.  Heavily freckled.  Thirty-Five.  Five feet, five inches.  One-hundred-twenty pounds.  Shoulder-length curly red hair.  Green eyes.  Professor in the Genetics department at St. George’s College.  Collapsed and died at a café.  Complained of facial numbness and trouble breathing prior.

Victim #2:  Jacob Smith.  Light-complexioned Black male.  Forty-Two.  Six feet even.  One-hundred-eighty pounds.  Short wavy brown hair.  Hazel eyes.  Professor in the Bioengineering department at University College London.  Found unresponsive outside by a neighbor.  Pronounced dead at hospital.  Severe bouts of stomach cramps and diarrhea prior.

Victim #3:  Sophia Brown.  Dark-complexioned Black female.  Forty-Nine.  Five feet, nine inches.  One-hundred-fifty pounds.  Mid-length frizzy black/grey hair.  Grey eyes.  Professor in the Chemical Engineering department at King’s College London.  Found unconscious at home by husband.  Died enroute to hospital.  Multiple episodes of nausea and vomiting prior.

Victim #4:  Charlie Williams.  Caucasian male.  Fifty-Six.  Five feet, eight inches.  Two-hundred pounds.  Close-cut white hair.  Silver beard.  Brown eyes.  Professor in the Chemistry department at Imperial College London.  Found dead by some of his students.  No prior symptoms known.

Sherlock opened his eyes and spoke to no one in particular (or perhaps to himself).  “The known victims are both male and female.  Their ages and physical characteristics vary.  The circumstances in which they were found all differ.  Their symptoms are all consistent with acute tetrodotoxin poisoning.  There appears to be a pattern involving an increase in the age of each subsequent victim.  But this may be trivial.  The only thing that seems to link all four of them is that they were all professors of sciences at local colleges.  Suspected victim #5 doesn’t fit the pattern of age or profession.  Yet her symptoms can be equated with those of the four known victims.  Therefore, balance of probability suggests that her death is in some way related.”  Then, gesturing towards the still-covered body of victim #1, he said, “Molly, if you would be so kind.”

Dr. Hooper removed the sheet covering the body.  Sherlock pulled a folded case of tools out of the pocket of his great coat.   He removed a slide-out magnifying glass from the case and proceeded to examine the body.  Slowly and carefully, he looked for any hidden clues.  When he got to the woman’s hands, he found nothing anomalous on the left one.  But then, when examining the right one, he noticed a pin-prick sized hole on the palm, just below the middle finger.  Curious.  He completed his examination of the woman’s body, but found nothing else unusual.  He then continued on to each of the other three known victims in turn.  They all had the same tiny hole in the same place on their right palms.  But what did it mean?  Might it be an injection site?  Could that be how the victims got the toxin into their bodies?  If it was a needle mark, it was an odd place for one.  And the hole was much smaller than that which would result from any size of needle typically used for injections.

Sherlock then returned to the body of Isla Taylor.  First he examined her right hand, then her left one.  But she did not have the same mark on either hand.  Maybe her case wasn’t related after all.  No.  It had to be.  Somehow.  After Molly pulled the cover the rest of the way off, he proceeded to examine the body from head to toe.  He found no marks and nothing out of the ordinary on her front.  But when Molly turned the body over, Sherlock discovered the same mark as was on the other victims’ right palms.  Only this one was on the young Miss Taylor’s back, towards the center and just below the left shoulder blade.  But why would it be there?

After completing his examinations of all of the bodies, Sherlock turned to Dr. Hooper.  “Thank you, Molly.  I’ll leave you to your work, then.  Sorry – gotta dash.”  Then, to Dr. Watson, he said, “Come on, John.”

“Come on, where?” asked John.  But Sherlock was already out the door, leaving John to follow in his wake.

 

*************


	5. Chapitre Cinq

When John caught up to Sherlock, he was outside, his hand raised in the air, hailing a taxi.  “So where are you off to?” he asked.

“We’re going to talk to Isla Taylor’s parents.  I texted Lestrade.  They’re going to meet us at the Yard.”

“And what makes you think that I’m going with you?”

“Have you got something better on?”

Just then, a taxi pulled over.  Sherlock climbed in, then, with the door still ajar, looked impatiently at John.  “Well?”  With a deep sigh and a perturbed look on his face, John joined Sherlock in the taxi.  Then the two of them set off for New Scotland Yard.

 

*************

 

A short time later, Sherlock, John, and Lestrade were in an interview room at the Yard.  A woman and two men sit across the table from them.

“This is Miss Taylor’s mother and step–father,” Lestrade said to Sherlock and John, “Mrs. Lily Taylor and Mr. Harry Taylor.  And this is her father, Mr. Noah Jones.”  Speaking to the trio across the table, he said, “This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson.”

“Mrs. Taylor, Mr. Jones,” Sherlock said, shaking their hands.  “I really am most terribly sorry about what happened to your daughter.  It would be quite helpful if you could tell me a little bit about her.”

“She was just such a beautiful person,” said Mrs. Taylor.  “She always put others ahead of herself.  She cared so much about everyone’s feelings.  And she never refused help when someone needed it.  She had called me last night, told me that she was feeling a bit run down.  But she refused to skip class this morning because she had promised her best friend that she would be there.  I just wish --,” here, she faltered.  “I wish she would’ve thought of herself for once.  That she would’ve gone to hospital and had herself checked out if she wasn’t feeling well.”  Tears started to form in her eyes and her voice began to crack.  “Mr. Holmes, she was my little girl, my only child.  I --.”  Mrs. Taylor broke down and sobbed, bowing her head to the table and burying her face into her folded arms.  Mr. Taylor leaned over and put a comforting arm around her.

Sherlock watched Mr. Jones’s face, studying the somewhat stoic look on his countenance.  “Do you have anything to add?” he prompted.

“Mr. Holmes,” Mr. Jones replied, glancing briefly over at his ex-wife, “Lily and I divorced when Isla was only five years old.  But she was still my daughter.  I spent time with her whenever I could.  In fact, I saw her just last night.”

“And did anything seem amiss?”

“No, not at all.  Everything seemed quite normal.  We had dinner at her favorite restaurant.  Then she left to go home, said she had an exam to study for.  She was working towards a degree in Art History.  She wanted to get a job at a museum.”  He paused momentarily before continuing.  “Mr. Holmes, Detective Inspector Lestrade has told us about what you do.  You wouldn’t be investigating Isla’s death unless you had a good reason, would you?  Not if it was just a case of food poisoning or the flu gone wrong.  So what’s really going on?  What is it that you’re not telling us?  Please, I need to know.  Did someone do this to our daughter deliberately?”

Ignoring the questions, Sherlock stood up from the table.  “Thank you very much for your time,” he said.  “You’ve all been very helpful.”

As Mr. and Mrs. Taylor came around the table to leave, Sherlock shook their hands again.  But when he turned to shake Mr. Jones’s hand, the man hesitated.  He seemed as though he was holding something back that he was reluctant to say.  After the Taylors had made their way out of the room, Sherlock spoke.  “Now, Mr. Jones, just what is it that you wanted to tell me that you didn’t want your ex-wife to hear?”

Mr. Jones seemed startled at first, but then quickly recovered his senses.  “Do you think that my daughter’s death might be connected to the recent series of mysterious deaths?  The ones that I’ve read about in the papers?” he asked.

“And why would you suggest that?” Sherlock asked.

“It’s just that her symptoms seemed eerily similar to those of the others.  I don’t know.  Maybe I’m just reading too much into things.”

Sherlock cocked his head sideways while contemplating Mr. Jones’s reply.  “No,” he said at last.  “That’s not it.  At least not all of it.  What else is it that you’re not telling me?”

“I – I don’t know if this is relevant, but I knew the others.  Or at least I knew of them.”

“Explain.”

“Well, I --,” Mr. Jones shifted his weight uncomfortably and glanced uneasily towards the door.  “There’s this woman, Amelia Wilson.  I had an affair with her a long time ago, back when Isla was still a young child.  It’s one of the reasons that Lily and I got divorced.”  Sherlock listened stoically, while John’s face bore an expression of disapproval.  “A few months ago,” Mr. Jones continued, “Amelia contacted me.  Said she wanted to get together and talk.  I met her for coffee.  She told me that she was working at the Academy of Forensic Medical Sciences.  Everything seemed quite normal at first.  She said that she loved her job, and she spoke quite cordially about her co-workers.  But then she got a little bit manic.  Started ranting and raving about how people that she used to work with were out to get her.  That they wanted to ruin her reputation.  And that they were given jobs that should rightfully have been hers.  I asked her who she was talking about.  The people she named are the same people whom I later read about in the papers as having died.”

Sherlock steepled his fingers, settling his chin on his thumbs and letting his fingertips come to rest at his nose.  “It certainly seems as if Ms. Wilson may have some sort of connection to this case.  Exactly what kind of connection that might be remains to be seen.  But tell me, why would you think that Isla’s death might be connected to her?”

Mr. Jones lowered his eyes and dropped his chin to his chest.  Heaving a sigh, he said, “I thought she was crazy.  I didn’t really believe her.  I told her that she was probably imagining things.  That she was blowing things way out of proportion.  She got angry with me.  Then she stormed off.  Do you think that she could’ve done something to these people as some form of revenge?  That maybe she did something to Isla because of what I said to her?”

“At this juncture in time, Mr. Jones, it’s impossible to know anything definite yet.  And I never guess.  It might help my investigation if you could tell me some more about Ms. Wilson.”

“I don’t really know that much more.  She’s married, or at least she was when I met her.  Her husband’s name is Jack.  She was pregnant when I broke up with her.  I don’t know if it was my child, or if the child had even been born.”

“Did she tell you what her job was at the Academy?”

“I think she had said something about being an expert on toxins and venoms.”

“Hmmm…,” mused Sherlock, raising an eyebrow.  “Now that is interesting.  But it remains to be seen whether or not this avenue of investigation will yet bear fruit.  Again, I thank you for your time.  And I will be in touch whenever I know more for certain.”

Sherlock shook Mr. Jones’s hand.  As Mr. Jones turned to leave, a thought crossed Sherlock’s mind.  “A moment,” he said, holding up his hand.  “I never did ask you, where is it that you work?”

“Oh, I work over at the Francis Crick Institute,” Mr. Jones replied.  Then, almost thoughtfully, “It’s actually where Amelia and I met.”  He smiled ironically.

Sherlock pondered Mr. Jones’s answer for a moment, then said, “Well, good day to you, Mr. Jones.  And once more, I will be in touch.”

After Mr. Jones departed, Sherlock turned to Lestrade.  “This is shaping up to be quite a fascinating case.  I’ll let you know when I’ve solved it.  Good day, Detective Inspector.”  Then, to Dr. Watson, he said, “Let’s go John.  We have work to do.”

By now John was hopelessly intrigued by the intricacies of the case.  Without any argument, he willingly trailed along behind Sherlock.  But when John tried to follow him into the waiting taxi, Sherlock put up a hand to stop him.

“No,” said Sherlock.  “This is my cab.  You get the next one.”

“Why?” asked John.

“I need you to go interview Jack Wilson.  Lestrade will give you the address.”

“And just what will you be doing?”

“I’m going over to the Academy to interview Amelia Wilson.  We’ll meet back at your motel room in three hours.”  With that, Sherlock shut the taxi’s door and leaned forward to give the driver instructions.

The taxi pulled slowly back into traffic.  John turned to go back into the Yard and get the Wilsons’ address from Lestrade.  Just then, an alert on his mobile phone sounded, signaling that he had an incoming text.  He pulled out his phone and checked the sender.  It was from Lestrade.  A brief thought of “How in the Hell –” crossed his mind.  But this notion was quickly followed by an, “Oh, of course.”  His eyes flitted momentarily in the direction that the taxi had departed.  Looking back down, he opened and read the text.

“Jack & Amelia Wilson.  719C Winchester Terrace.”

John quickly shoved his phone back into his jacket pocket and flagged down an approaching taxi.  After telling the driver the address, he leaned back and settled in for the long trip ahead.

 

*************


	6. Chapitre Six

After finally arriving at his destination an hour later, John found himself in a picturesque middle class suburban neighborhood.  The house was a quaint little cottage with exterior brick walls and a tiny yard surrounded by a white picket fence.  He departed the taxi and walked up the steps, preparing to knock on the front door.  Just then, a car pulled into the driveway.  He turned to see a middle-aged man getting out of .a dark blue sedan.

“Mr. Wilson?” asked John.

“Yes, I’m Jack Wilson,” came the reply.  “Who are you?  What do you want?”

“Hi.  I’m Doctor John Watson.  I’m here to ask you a couple of questions about your wife.”

A look of concern came across Mr. Wilson’s face.  “Amelia?  Where is she?  What happened?  Is she okay?”

“What? No – no, there’s nothing wrong.  At least not that I know of,” John replied awkwardly.  He paused, trying to think of what to say next.  “I’ve come to check up on her,” he continued.  “I’m sort of helping the police to investigate a case.  Some former colleagues of your wife have all become seriously ill.  We’re just concerned about her well-being.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that.  What is it that you want to know?”

“Has your wife been sick lately?  Any severe headaches or other unusual symptoms?”

“No, not that she’s told me, anyway.  And she hasn’t seemed under the weather at all recently.”

“Has she had any contact with any of her old workmates in the last several weeks?”

“No, I don’t think so.  She usually just goes to work and then comes straight back home.”

“Just one more question if you don’t mind, Mr. Wilson.  How did your wife get along with her ex-coworkers?”

“They got along just fine,” said Jack, seemingly perplexed by the question.  Then, somewhat perturbedly, “I’m sorry, but what in the world does that have to do with an investigation into ill people?”

“So sorry,” said John, “but I’m afraid that I can’t divulge the details of an ongoing investigation.”  He hurriedly walked away, but then stopped suddenly at the curb on the edge of the street.  Turning back to Mr. Wilson, he sheepishly asked, “Err, do you know where I could get a cab?”

Mr. Wilson answered with a rather annoyed look on his face.  “Yeah, try the main road,” he said, indicating the direction with a quick nod of his head.”

“Thanks,” said John, as he walked off in the direction of the main road.  Behind him, Mr. Wilson was left to puzzle over John’s last question.

 

*************

 

Meanwhile, in Clerkenwell, London, Sherlock walked down a corridor inside The Academy of Forensic Medical Sciences.  He was accompanied by a young man in a white lab coat.  They came to a set of double stainless steel doors.  The young man scanned his I.D. and pushed the doors open.  The room on the other side of the door was some kind of laboratory.  Various types of scientific equipment and chemicals sat upon stainless steel tables under bright fluorescent lights.  The young man ushered Sherlock into the room and closed the doors.  He then called out to a smartly dressed middle-aged woman who also wore a white lab coat.

“Dr. Wilson.”

Dr. Amelia Wilson turned to face the visitors.  “Yes, Oliver, what do you need?”  Then, seeing Sherlock, she asked, “Who’s this?”

“This man asked to speak to you,” Oliver replied.  “He says that he’s with the police.”

“Really?” she said to Sherlock incredulously.  “What could the police want to speak to me about?”

“I’m afraid that I must speak to you alone,” said Sherlock.  “Would you be so kind as to ask my escort here to leave?  Then we can get on with our business.  I promise that I won’t take up too much of your time.”

Dr. Wilson nodded her assent, saying to Oliver, “Why don’t you wait just outside of the door?  You can escort him out when we’re finished here.”  Oliver nodded, and then exited the lab.  Dr. Wilson then turned to Sherlock and asked, “Now, who are you, and what is this all about?”

 “My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

“Am I supposed to be impressed?”

“You should be.”

“Look,” said Dr. Wilson, with an air of impatience, “I really am quite busy.  So would you mind just cutting to the chase?  Why are you here?”

“What’s your role at this lab, Dr. Wilson?” Sherlock asked quite bluntly.

“I’m not free to say.  Some of what we do here is very sensitive.  And I can’t divulge our trade secrets.  They’re protected by privacy laws.”

“I have been assured by Detective Inspector Lestrade of New Scotland Yard that I would be accorded every courtesy here.  So I strongly suggest that you answer my questions.”

Dr. Wilson hesitated for just a moment longer, then let out a sigh of resignation.  “I study venoms and toxins in an effort to create more effective antivenins and antitoxins.  We are trying to tailor each one to a specific type of toxin or venom.  That way, each can work quicker and more efficiently.”

“This all seems very straight-forward.  So tell me, why were you so hesitant to answer my question?”

“We hold several patents here.  These types of antidotes can be very valuable.  Competing labs have even tried to send out spies to steal our research.  It’s a cutthroat business, Mr. Holmes.”

“These materials that you are doing research on, where do you get them and where do you keep them?”

“Some of them we get from suppliers.  Some of them we extract for ourselves from living organisms.  We store them in freezers and refrigerators here in this lab.”

“And these living organisms, where are they?”

“They’re in an adjacent room.”

“Through that door?” asked Sherlock, pointing towards a single stainless steel door on the opposite end of the lab.  He then began to walk in the direction of the door without bothering to wait for an answer.

“Wait a minute,” Dr. Wilson called out after him.  “Just where do you think you are going?”

Sherlock stopped walking and turned to face her.  “Dr. Wilson,” he said rather sternly, “do I have your cooperation or not?  Now, are you going to come open this door for me?  Or do I have to put in a call to the Yard, and have D.I. Lestrade come and open it.  It’s your choice, so which will it be?”

Defeated, Dr. Wilson followed Sherlock to the door and scanned her I.D. to unlock it.  Inside the room, a myriad of plants and animals were organized into different sections.  Sherlock moved through the room, carefully examining specimens and labels as he went.  Against one wall was a cabinet-like organizer with slide out drawers accommodating snakes.  Nearby, a row of shelves consisted of terrariums containing other reptiles.  Another row held aquariums of amphibians.  A third was packed with tanks of various marine creatures.  And a fourth was full of a diverse collection of fresh-water animals in tanks.  Towards the back of the room were tables lined with an assortment of plants thriving under artificial lights.  Next to these tables were small trees and larger plants in individual pots.

In the section of marine creatures, Sherlock saw a rather large divided tank containing a number of puffer fish.  Not too far off, several smaller tanks each contained a single blue-ringed octopus.  A section over, with the amphibians, he saw multiple species of poison dart frogs kept in separate aquariums.

Dr. Wilson kept a wary eye on Sherlock as he walked about examining the contents of the room.  After Sherlock had concluded his inspection, he walked back over to where Dr. Wilson stood waiting by the door.

“Well,” Dr. Wilson asked Sherlock, “are you satisfied now?”

As was his way, Sherlock ignored her question and asked his own.  “Dr. Wilson, I noticed that you keep multiple specimens of several species known to contain the potentially deadly poison tetrodotoxin.  Can you tell me the specific purpose of having them here?”

Dr. Wilson seemed about to ask Sherlock how he knew about tetrodotoxin.  Instead, she acquiesced and answered his question.  “We are harvesting natural samples of TTX so that we can better understand it.  We use that knowledge to make synthetic versions that are as close as possible to the natural ones.  Having a variety of sources of TTX will help us to create a more effective anti-toxin.  And we’re also studying the potential beneficial uses of TTX in the medical field.”

Sherlock looked pensive for a moment.  When he finally spoke, he said, “You told me earlier that this type of research is a competitive business.  So how do you know if a sample of synthetic tetrodotoxin belongs to this lab or to any other?  I presume that there is some kind of proprietary marker added.”

“Yes,” answered Dr. Wilson.  “Every lab adds its own chemical signature to each of its creations.  And all of the chemical signatures are kept on file in an international database.”

“Thank you for your cooperation, Dr. Wilson,” Sherlock said abruptly.  “I must be off now.  But I may be contacting you another time if I need to speak to you again on this matter.”

“And just what is ‘this matter’?” Dr. Wilson asked tersely.

“Oh, nothing for you to be too concerned about,” Sherlock responded offhandedly.  He walked out of the room with Dr. Wilson trailing behind him.  Without stopping, he strode through the lab and pushed open the set of double doors with both hands.

Startled by the opening doors swinging towards him, Oliver jumped quickly out of the way.  “Are you all finished up here, sir?” he asked Sherlock.

“Yes, I rather think that I am,” Sherlock answered.

Looking towards Dr. Wilson for confirmation, Oliver asked, “Will that be all?”

“Yes, that will be quite all, Oliver,” said Dr. Wilson.  “Thank you.  You may escort him back out now.”

Sherlock and Oliver set out back down the corridor in the direction from which they had come.  As they retreated, Dr. Wilson stood in the doorway staring after them with a quizzical expression on her face.   Alone again, she was left to ponder what in the world Sherlock’s visit could possibly have been about.

 

*************


	7. Chapitre Sept

John arrived back at his motel room just before the appointed meeting time.  The skies had darkened slightly as larger clouds moved in from the east, and a light rain had begun to fall.  A gentle breeze, along with the rain, brought some welcome relief.  The weather in London had been mostly dry for weeks, as well as unusually warm, both during the day and overnight.  Caught unprepared and without an umbrella, John turned up the collar of his jacket.  He pulled the jacket over his head slightly to shield himself from the rain.  With his head down to keep the rain out of his eyes, he fumbled with the key and lock.  Once inside, he intended to sit and dry off a bit while waiting for Sherlock to show up.  But just as he was closing and relocking the door, he heard a voice from the darkened room behind him.

“Hello.”

He swirled around and reflexively reached for the gun in his jacket pocket.  It wasn’t there.  He did not want to turn his back to reach for the light switch.  So he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, his heart pounding wildly.  When he could see well enough and realized who had spoken, he finally relaxed a little.  “Jesus, Sherlock.  How in the Hell...? Oh, never mind.” After flipping the lights on, he turned back to Sherlock.  This time, instead of standing, Sherlock sat casually in a tiny, threadbare armchair by the equally small window.  “You know you could’ve gotten yourself killed!  I could’ve shot you!” John said, exasperated.

“I knew you wouldn’t.”

“You couldn’t”

“But you didn’t, did you?”

“Yeah, well, you just got lucky.  It would’ve been a little bit difficult to shoot you without my gun.”  John took off his jacket and shook off the excess water droplets, draping it across the back of a chair.  He then plopped himself down into another chair.  “So, what now?” he asked.

“Heading over to Bart’s.  I need to go to the lab.  I’ve got some analyzing to do.”

“Hang on,” said John, not even waiting for Sherlock to ask him to come along.  Getting up, he grabbed his jacket and put it back on.  Then he walked over to the bedside table, took out his gun, and shoved it into his pocket.  “Alright, let’s go.”

Sherlock stood up from the armchair and the two headed outside.  It had already stopped raining, and the sun was peeking through the clouds.  They caught the first taxi they saw, and were soon on their way back to Bart’s hospital.

 

*************

 

During the taxi ride to Bart’s, John tried to engage Sherlock in conversation.  “So, okay, what have we got?  Did you get any information from Amelia Wilson?”

Sherlock did not respond.  Instead, he brought one hand up to cover his face, looking as if he had an oncoming headache.

Not picking up on Sherlock’s subtle signal for him to stop talking, John tried a different approach.  “Well, I did get a chance to speak to Jack Wilson.  He --.”

Sherlock, vexed that John was disturbing his ability to think quietly, raised his voice and snapped at him.  “Oh, good old John!  How would we ever fill the time if you didn’t ask questions and prattle on?  Could you please just shut up for five minutes?”

John, shocked by Sherlock’s sudden outburst, stared briefly at him.  Then, he simply said, “Yeah. Okay, okay.”

John looked away from Sherlock and stared blankly out of the taxi’s window.  Satisfied, Sherlock turned his head and looked out of the other window.  The pair rode on like that in silence for the rest of the trip to the hospital.

 

*************

 

When they arrived at Bart’s, Sherlock and John walked from the taxi to the building without speaking.  Once inside, Sherlock, who was walking ahead to lead the way, slowed down and came up alongside John.  “So,” he asked, “what is it that you learned from Mr. Wilson that you were so eager to tell me before?”

John stopped dead in his tracks and gaped at Sherlock in utter disbelief.  He could not decide whether or not he should even bother attempting an answer.  Sherlock, who had also come to a stop, interrupted his thought processes.

“Well, come on,” Sherlock said impatiently.  “What do you have?”

Finally, John regained the ability to speak.  “Mr. Wilson told me that Amelia hadn’t been ill at all recently.  It’s probably not likely that she was a potential target.  Doesn’t mean that she won’t be, though.”

“And?  Is that it?  Is that the best you’ve got?  Well that hardly tells us anything at all, now does it?  And it most certainly does not disprove Dr. Wilson as a suspect.”

“No, give me a chance!” John retorted tetchily.  “According to Mr. Wilson, Amelia got along just fine with her former coworkers.  He also doesn’t think that she’d seen any of them recently.  He said that she usually just goes to work and then comes straight back home.”

“Well that’s hardly proof of her innocence.  Her husband could be covering for her.  Or she could’ve had contact with the victims without her husband’s knowledge.  She might have slipped away while she was supposed to be at work.”

By now, John was already quite exasperated.  So when Sherlock gave him a look of disapproval and said, “Fortunately, I haven’t been idle,” John glared at him harshly.  He considered just walking away and washing his hands of the whole situation.  But his overwhelming curiosity to know the conclusion of it all convinced him to stay and see the whole thing through.  Before he knew it, the two were walking again.  They went down a couple of corridors, up several flights of stairs, and down a few more corridors.  Finally, they came to the analysis laboratory.

 

*************


	8. Chapitre Huit

The analysis laboratory was bigger than the lab that Mike had taken John to.  It had to be to accommodate the larger pieces of equipment.  Sherlock walked in like he belonged there.  John, on the other hand, felt a bit awkward and out of place.  He had trained as a doctor at Bart’s.  But he was always more at home working directly with patients than doing any of the behind the scenes work.

Inside the lab, Molly was putting out various containers of substances and smaller pieces of lab equipment.

“Ah, Molly, I see that the samples have arrived,” said Sherlock.  “Thank you for setting them up.”

“No problem,” Molly said, as she went about finishing her task.

“Samples?” asked John.  “Samples of what?”

“Don’t you remember, John?” Sherlock asked.  “Amelia Wilson has experience with toxins and venoms through her job.  It just so happens that she’s working with natural sources of tetrodotoxin as well as creating artificial versions.  So I phoned Lestrade and had him get a warrant to collect samples of her work.”

“Okay, but what –?” John stopped short when Sherlock rolled his eyes at him.  “Alright then,” he said, with an exasperated sigh, “just tell me.”

Without even missing a beat, Sherlock launched straight into his explanation.  “Just as natural TTX is a little bit different from synthetic versions, the synthetic versions are all different from each other.  We need to compare all of our samples to the version of TTX used to kill our victims.  Once we have found our weapon, we’ll have our murderer.”

“But how do we know which version was used on the victims?”

“Oh, it’s just a simple matter of separating the tetrodotoxin from the other components of the victims’ blood,” Sherlock said nonchalantly.

“Oh, yeah, of course.  Simple.  Now why didn’t I think of that?”

“Because you’re an idiot.”  John shot Sherlock an angry look.  Sherlock responded with, “No, don’t be like that. Almost everyone is.”

“And what if the murderer used the natural form of TTX?  How then could you connect the weapon to the suspect?”

“Balance of probability suggests that the murderer would most likely go with a synthetic source.  This would ensure that the concentration of the toxin was uniform.  And the toxin would need to be strong enough to not only kill the victims, but to do it fairly quickly.”

“No, wait.  Hang on, Sherlock.  If Amelia Wilson is our suspect, and all of these samples are from her job, then how --?”  Once again, John cut himself off before finishing.  “Oh, I see.  You have another suspect, then.  But who?”

Sherlock stared at John momentarily.  “Isn’t it obvious?” he asked.  Then, more to himself, “Why can’t people just think?”

“Oh, because we’re stupid,” John retorted.

Sherlock bit his lower lip, but then shook off John’s response.  “Who else did we meet today that could’ve had the means, motive, and opportunity to kill our victims?  Some of our potential suspects may have had a motive.  But, looking at their qualifications, it’s clear that only one of them also had the means.  Someone who has a solid background in the biological sciences.  And someone who also happens to work in a biomedical research center.”

A look of realization crossed John’s face as his mind finally registered who Sherlock was referring to.  “You mean that Noah Jones is our second suspect?”

“He has to be.  I did some checking.  The Francis Crick Institute is doing its own research involving tetrodotoxin.  Mr. Jones isn’t directly involved in the project, but he is closely associated with the people who are.  And he has a high-level security clearance, which means that he can get into almost any lab there.  This gives him access to both the natural and synthetic versions of TTX at work.  Everything fits.  It’s perfect.”

“But what could his motivation have been?”

Sherlock surveyed the blank expression on John’s face and laughed in disbelief.  “Oh, look at you.  You’re so vacant.”  Ignoring the fierce glance that John shot back at him, he continued.  “Mr. Jones blames Dr. Wilson for the break-up of his marriage, so there’s your first motive.  Add to that the fact that the Francis Crick Institute is a rival lab competing against the Academy of Forensic Medical Sciences.  They’re in a race to develop and patent products related to TTX research.  There’s your motive number two.  Mr. Jones could’ve sought to kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.  He might have committed these murders, and then pointed out Dr. Wilson as a suspect to divert suspicion away from himself.  Perhaps he had hoped that she would end up in prison.  She would then suffer for what she, in his mind, did to him.  She would also be unable to continue her research.   And maybe he thought that the reputation of her lab would also be ruined.”

“Well, yeah, of course, of course.  That makes perfect sense.”  Then, after a moment of contemplation, “No, wait, wait.  Why would Mr. Jones want to kill his own daughter?”

Sherlock furrowed his brow.  “I don’t know.  I don’t like not knowing.  It’s a loose thread, and one that needs to be tied up.”

“Okay, so, for the most part, Mr. Jones had both the means and a motive to commit these murders.  Dr. Wilson certainly had the means.  But whether or not she actually had a motive is his word against hers and her husband’s.  And we certainly can’t ask the victims for any help.  One thing, though, she might actually have a motive for killing Isla Taylor.  It could’ve been done out of some form of revenge against Mr. Jones.”

“You think so?” asked Sherlock, in a tone that seemed to indicate some level of disbelief.

“Yes, actually, I do,” said John.  “Unless you’ve got a better idea.”

“No, not for now,” Sherlock conceded.  Continuing, he said, “So, what we need to know is who had the opportunity to commit all of these murders.  As I said earlier, Dr. Wilson could’ve done so with or without her husband’s knowledge.  Right now, we only know one thing for certain.  Mr. Jones had dinner with his daughter the night before she fell ill and died.  But could he have possibly come into contact with all of the other victims prior to their deaths?  We have to find out without arousing anybody’s suspicions.”  With that, Sherlock abruptly walked out of the room.  As he passed through the doorway, he called out over his shoulder, “Back in a flash.”

 

*************


	9. Chapitre Neuf

In a park somewhere in London, Sherlock walked up to a young woman who was sitting on a bench.  Next to her, propped up against the back of the bench, was a sign that read “Hungry and Homeless.”  He handed her a 50 quid note folded inside of a piece of paper on which he had previously written something.  The woman thanked him, and he moved on.

Elsewhere, Sherlock came to a popular fishing spot by the edge of a river.  A young man was collecting empty aluminum cans which had been discarded on the shore.  Other cans bobbed about in the shallow water.  Sherlock handed the young man money wrapped up inside of a slip of paper with a hand-written message.  The young man expressed his appreciation, and Sherlock continued on with his quest.

Back in front of Bart’s hospital, Sherlock checked a few messages on his mobile phone, then sent out a mass text.

 

*************

 

More than an hour after he had left, Sherlock walked casually back into the analysis laboratory.  Molly had long since finished setting everything up for the testing.  But she had had to put the samples back into the lab’s refrigerator.

John, who was sitting on one of the counter-height chairs, greeted Sherlock with, “And where have you been all this time?”

“Investing.”

“Care to explain?”

“My homeless network.  It’s essential to me in almost any investigation.”

“Homeless network?”

“They’re my ears and eyes all over London.”

“Oh, that’s good.”

Just then, Molly came over with the samples that had been set out earlier.  She put them on the stainless steel lab counter and left. When she returned a few minutes later, she brought five vials of blood in a small test tube rack.  A third trip had her bringing a different set of samples, ones that had not yet arrived earlier in the day.

John looked at Sherlock inquiringly.  Sherlock, without even taking notice of John’s expression, simply said, “Ah, finally, they’re here.”

 Not wanting to be called an idiot again, but driven by the need to know, John asked, “What’s finally here?”

“The rest of the samples, of course,” Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.  “How otherwise could we compare the TTX from the victims’ blood to the TTX that Mr. Jones has access to?  We would need to have samples of the TTX from the Francis Crick Institute.  Honestly John, what else could they have been?”

John pursed his lips in irritation.  “Well,” he began, but then thought better of it.  “Never mind.  Just forget it.  Shall we move on?”

Molly and John spent the next several hours assisting Sherlock in his analyses.  Sherlock, for his part, mixed various reagents and solvents into labeled test tubes containing portions of the samples to be tested.  The test tubes containing the victims’ blood were then put into a centrifuge.  They were spun down in several stages to separate out the component parts.  Eventually, every sample of tetrodotoxin had been isolated and dissolved into a solution.  Each was then loaded, one at a time, into the Liquid Chromatograph – Mass Spectrometer.  The machine would determine the samples’ exact chemical make-up.  After the LC-MS had processed each sample, a readout appeared on its screen, and a hard copy was subsequently printed out.

With the analyses completed, Sherlock sat at one of the lab counters, poring over all of the printouts of the results.  He compared and contrasted them with each other, looking for all of the similarities and differences.

Meanwhile, John got up from where he had been sitting and stretched.  Feeling a little bit hungry, he looked at his watch to see how much time had passed.  “Oh God, is it that late already?” he muttered to himself.  Turning to the others, he asked, “Anyone fancy popping on down to the canteen for a bite to eat?”

“I’m just going to go to the machine to get some crisps,” said Molly.  “Do you want anything, Sherlock?”  Sherlock looked up from the papers and opened his mouth as if to answer.  Before he could, however, Molly interjected.  “It’s okay, I know you don’t.”  As Molly walked out of the room, Sherlock stared after her briefly.  Then he returned his attentions to the printouts in front of him.

John momentarily wondered how Molly would know that Sherlock did not want anything.  But then he shook off the thought and went out the door himself.  He headed downstairs to the hospital’s canteen, leaving Sherlock to examine his papers.

 

*************

 

A short time later, John returned to the lab.  He carried with him a large cup of coffee and a basket of chips covered in ketchup.  Molly had already come back.  She was now leaning against one of the walls with two small bags of crisps and a bottle of water.

Sherlock still sat at the counter, but had cleared most of the papers away. He was now closely scrutinizing what remained.  Pausing on one printout, he knitted his eyebrows in concentration.  Fishing through the rest of the papers, he retrieved one.  He set the second paper down next to the first to do a side by side comparison.  His finger travelled back and forth between the two printouts.  It moved from each peak on one to an identical peak on the other.  Suddenly, his eyes popped wide open and he jumped up from his seat.  “Ah!” he cried out triumphantly.  “Finally!”

“Finally, what?”  asked John.

“We have a match,” Sherlock replied.

“So one of our suspects is the murderer?  But which one?”

“This one,” said Sherlock, pointing at the name that he had scrawled at the top of one of the two papers.  Just then, his phone sounded a text alert.  He opened the incoming text, exclaiming, “Yes!” as he finished reading and closed the message.  “Come on, John,” he said.  “We have a murderer to go catch.”  Retrieving his great coat from off of the hook on which it hung, he hurried through the door without another word.  Handing what was left of his food to Molly, John quickly grabbed his own jacket and rushed off after Sherlock.

 

*************


	10. Chapitre Dix

When they arrived at their destination, John turned to Sherlock.  “So what was that text you got before we left Bart’s?” he asked.

“Oh, it was just one of my homeless network.  He had some information pertaining to our case.”

“What kind of information?”

“Nothing much.  Just our murderer’s itinerary for the last month.”

“And how on earth did he get that?” asked a surprised John.

“Simple, really.  He went to our murderer’s home and rooted around in the bins outside.  Good thing our suspect kept an appointment schedule.  Unfortunately for our murderer, the poor choice was made to dispose of it with the household rubbish.  Luckily for us, the schedule happened to include meetings with our first four victims.”

“Well that wasn’t very bright, now was it?”

“No, I should think not.”

Sherlock and John were walking as they talked, and had now come to the front door of their main suspect’s house.  John buzzed the doorbell, which rang out the first few measures of “Rousseau’s Dream.”  A figure could be seen moving around inside of the house.  A minute later, the front door opened.

“Mr. Holmes,” said the person who answered the door, “I wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon.  What on earth are you doing here?”

“I had some more questions,” Sherlock said casually, “So I thought I’d just drop by.”

“Do come in, then.  Would you like a spot of tea?”

Sherlock and John entered the house, but declined the offer of tea.  Both also remained standing, rather than take the proffered seats.  “So,” said their host, “What else do you need to know?”

“Well,” Sherlock said bluntly, “we’ve discovered the source of the poison that was responsible for a recent spate of mysterious deaths.  It traces back to a laboratory which you have direct access to through your job.”

“Mr. Holmes, are you implying that you think I had something to do with these murders?”

“Interesting.  I didn’t say that they were murdered.”

“Well, I – I just assumed that they were.  Now, you said that you had some more questions?”

“Ah, yes.  Is there any possible way that this poison could’ve gotten outside of the laboratory, whether by accident or on purpose?”

“No, not at all.  We have very strict protocols, not only for safety reasons, but also to protect our research from rival labs.”

“And how does the lab ensure that nothing gets out?  What are the specific procedures set in place?”

“Any experiments on biohazards are conducted in a sterile room.  And anybody working with such things is decontaminated before entering or leaving the room.  Furthermore, all employees are searched for contraband before they leave work.”

“And if somebody on the inside wanted to get around these protocols, how would they do it?”

“Well I’m sure that I don’t know, Mr. Holmes.”

Just then, Sherlock noticed something that their host was wearing.  He turned like he was getting ready to leave.  “I think that will be all for now,” he said.  “Thank you for your time.”  Sherlock reached out as if to shake their suspect’s hand.  Instead, he took the hand by the fingertips, palm side down.  “That’s quite a lovely ring you have there,” said Sherlock.  He pretended to admire the large and gaudy piece of jewelry.  “It’s Eastern European in origin, isn’t it?  Bulgarian, if I’m not mistaken, and I never am.  In fact, it looks a lot like a piece I saw whilst I was last in Bulgaria.  The trinket was on display at a history museum there.  Interesting exhibit that was.  All about secret devices that were used during the Communist regime.  Have you ever been to Bulgaria before?”

In that moment, their murderer knew that the jig was up.  The choice had to be made to surrender peacefully, fight, or flee.  The day had been quite warm.  Even though the sun was setting and it was now nearing evening time, the temperature had not yet cooled down.  Because of the stifling conditions, the back door to the house had been left open to let in some air.  The suspect seized this opportunity to escape, bolting through the open door and running through the back yard.

Sherlock and John took off chasing the murderer, with Sherlock quickly gaining ground.  He easily caught up to the suspect, who was now trying to climb the wrought-iron fence around the yard.  Sherlock bundled the murderer to the ground, where the two tussled about.  After a brief few minutes of fighting in the dirt, they rolled, unceremoniously, into the nearby swimming pool. 

John, who had caught up to them during the scuffle, drew his gun should he need to use it.  But there was no clear shot to take.

Sherlock and the suspect continued to struggle with each other until Sherlock got the upper hand.  A sharp left hook knocked his opponent unconscious.  He dragged the murderer to the edge of the pool, where John helped a soaking wet Sherlock with his burden.

John and Sherlock now sat on the grass by the pool, both breathing heavily from the exertion of the chase.  The murderer lay on the grass next to them, still out cold, and with hands cuffed from behind.  Sherlock had still had his great coat on when he went into the pool.  It was now spread out on a nearby lawn chair, left to drip-dry as best it could.  The pair looked at each other and giggled over the absurdity of the situation.  Leaning back, they relaxed as they waited for the police to arrive.

 

*************


	11. Chapitre Onze

New Scotland Yard.  Sherlock was now dry after a quick trip home to change clothes and grab his other coat.  He stood in an interrogation room while D.I. Lestrade sat across the table from Noah Jones.  John waited with Lily and Harry Taylor in the observation room on the other side of a two-way mirror.

“But I didn’t do it, Detective Inspector.  I didn’t kill any of those people.  I just wouldn’t.  I couldn’t,” Mr. Jones repeatedly asserted as he profusely professed his innocence.

“Well if you didn’t do it,” asked Lestrade, “Then why did you run?”

“I – I don’t know.  Mr. Holmes just seemed so sure…,” he trailed off for a moment.  “I guess I just didn’t want to end up in jail for something that I didn’t do.  It was instinct.  But I swear to you that I had absolutely nothing to do with what happened to those people.”

“Three months ago.  Is that when you had the idea, after your meeting with Amelia Wilson?  Is that when you decided to kill the victims and blame it all on her?”

“I didn’t do it!  I didn’t kill them!” said Mr. Jones.  He was becoming increasingly agitated, and slammed his hands down on the table.  “I don’t know what else I can say or do to convince you.”

Behind Lestrade, Sherlock rolled his eyes.  Lestrade gave Mr. Jones a disbelieving look.  “Nice try.  But we have the evidence to prove that you did.  Your attempt to misdirect us isn’t working.”

“Evidence?  What evidence?”

“As Mr. Holmes told you, we found the origin of the poison that was used to kill the victims.  It came from a lab in the building that you work in.  A lab that you have full access to.”

“But like I told Mr. Holmes, we have very strict protocols to keep our work from ever leaving the building.  It simply couldn’t have happened.”

“And yet it did happen.”

“I assure you that I have no idea how anybody could’ve done it.  Or why they would’ve.  I trust everybody that I work with implicitly.”

Just then, the door to the interrogation room opened and an officer stepped in. He handed Lestrade a clear plastic evidence bag, then left, closing the door behind him. The evidence bag contained what looked like a simple stainless steel insulated drink container.

Mr. Jones paled visibly, and appeared slightly shaken.  “Where did you – I mean, what is that?”

“Oh, come off it.  You know exactly what it is and where we found it.  We executed a search warrant on your home and office. And surprise, surprise, we found this hidden away in your house.  A cryogenic storage container used for transporting biological materials.  It’s disguised as an ordinary drink flask, but has a secret compartment and coolant cartridge.  That’s how you managed to sneak the TTX through the security protocols at your job.  Clever, but not quite clever enough.”

Mr. Jones shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but still did not cave in to the pressure.

“The one thing I don’t understand is how you got the poison into their systems,” Lestrade continued.

Sherlock stepped forward, producing from his coat pocket the ring that Mr. Jones had been wearing earlier.  “He did it with this,” said Sherlock.  “It’s a holdover from the Communist regime in Bulgaria.  Back to when the Bulgarian secret police had close ties to the Russian KGB.  It appears to be an ordinary ring.  But look closely, and you’ll see that it contains a hidden micro-injection mechanism.  The bottom of the ring has a tiny reservoir containing whatever poison is to be injected.  The injector is triggered by a pressure-sensitive button recessed within the inside of the ring.  When the person wearing the ring shakes the hand of the victim, the button is depressed.  This causes the poison-tipped needle to shoot out into the victim’s hand, then quickly retract back into the ring.  The needle is so small, that the victim would barely feel it, if at all.  That’s why each of our first four victims had a nearly microscopic hole on their right palms.  And TTX is a very potent toxin.  It only takes a small amount to be fatal to a full grown adult.  So the reservoir in the ring wouldn’t have to be very large.  It would only need to hold a little bit of poison at a time.  How did Mr. Jones obtain such a ring, you may ask?  You might get him to tell you, but it hardly matters.”

Mr. Jones slumped forward and covered his face with his hands, utterly defeated.  Lestrade stared at Sherlock, his mouth open in amazement.  After a brief moment, a puzzled look came over his face.  “No – no, wait.  So what about Isla Taylor?  What possible reason could Mr. Jones have for killing his own daughter?”

“I don’t believe that he ever intended to kill her. Did you, Mr. Jones?  It was an accident, wasn’t it?  That’s why the injection site was on her back instead of her palm.”

At this point, Mr. Jones broke down and started sobbing uncontrollably.  When he was finally able to speak, he said, “I didn’t mean to do it, I swear!  After dinner, before she left to go home, I gave her a hug goodbye.  I forgot that I had the ring on.  I guess that the pressure from the hug triggered the injector, and it got her in the back.  I didn’t even realize what had happened at the time.  But then this morning, when the hospital phoned and told me that she had passed away – well, I just knew.”  Mr. Jones began sobbing heavily again.  Then, with his voice cracking as he spoke, he cried out, “Oh God!  How am I ever going to explain this to Lily?  How can I ever even face her again?  Oh God, I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.”  He crossed his arms on the table and buried his head into them, muffling the sounds of his sobs.

Lifting his head again, Mr. Jones finally gave in and confessed to everything.  “It’s all true.  Everything you said.  You were right all along.  Yes, I killed the first four victims.  Yes, I blamed it on Amelia to try to get back at her, and to get her out of the way.  I’ll give you a sworn statement.  I’ll sign a written confession.  Whatever you want.  There’s no use in trying to hide it anymore.”

In the observation room, Lily Taylor watched in horror as Noah’s confession unfolded.  She then turned and cried, inconsolably, into her husband’s arms.

 

*************


	12. Chapitre Douze

The case now solved, Sherlock and John stood outside of New Scotland Yard, preparing to part company.

“This case, John!  It’s been brilliant.”

“Yeah, well, brilliant isn’t quite the word I would’ve chosen.  Although you ending up in the drink was fairly amusing.”  He giggled at the memory.

Sherlock smiled.  “So, ran after a suspect. I told you that limp was psychosomatic.”

John was momentarily confused.  But then he looked down at himself and realized that he did not even have his cane with him.  “Oh shi...  My cane.  I’ve lost it.”

“Course not.  You left it back in your motel room.”

Not knowing what to say next, John simply changed the subject.  “So, what’s next for you?  Off to solve another case?”

“Perhaps, if anything of importance happens along.”  A pause.  “John, I want to thank you for helping me out with this case, and …  And for what you did for me yesterday.”

“You're welcome.  It was no problem at all, really.  And helping you with the case did turn out to be kind of fun after all.”

“No, I mean it.  And I want to do something to repay you for the kindness that you’ve shown me.  Meet me tomorrow evening at seven o’clock.  The address is two two one B Baker Street.”  Without any explanation whatsoever, and without another word, Sherlock hailed an approaching taxi and took off for parts unknown.

John was left to wonder what Sherlock could have meant.  He flagged down the next available taxi and headed back to his motel room for the night.

 

*************

 

Central London.  John arrived early for his meeting with Sherlock at 221B Baker Street.  He was contemplating whether to knock on the door, or to pop into Speedy’s, the café directly next door.  But before he could decide, Sherlock arrived in a taxi.

“Hello,” said Sherlock, as he walked over to where John stood by the door.  He got his key out and prepared to unlock the door.

“So this is your flat?” asked John.

“Yes.”

“Well, this is a top-notch location.  But it has to be pricey.”

“Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, gives me a special deal.  She owes me a favour.  I ensured her husband’s execution after he got himself sentenced to death a few years ago in Florida.”

John was not quite sure what to make of Sherlock’s matter-of-fact statement.  He opened his mouth to ask, but was interrupted.  The front door opened from the inside, and a pleasant elderly woman greeted them warmly.

“Sherlock,” she said, giving him a big hug.

“Mrs. Hudson, this is Doctor John Watson.”

John and Mrs. Hudson exchanged “Hellos,” then she invited him inside.  “Come in, come in,” she said cheerily.

“Thank you,” said John, as he entered the building.  Sherlock followed behind them.

Once inside, Sherlock led the way up the stairs and opened the door to his flat.  John walked in and looked around.  While the flat was well-styled, the living room was a bit of a mess.  Boxes, papers, and other possessions were strewn about randomly.  “Well, this is very nice indeed,” said John.  Just then, he noticed something on the mantelpiece above the fireplace.  “That’s a skull,” he said.  “A real skull.”

“Friend of mine,” said Sherlock.  “Well, I say ‘friend’…”

“What do you think, then, Doctor Watson?” asked Mrs. Hudson, who had come into the room behind the two men.  “There’s another bedroom upstairs, if you’ll be needing two bedrooms.”

John looked at her quizzically, then turned to Sherlock.  “What’s she going on about?” he asked.

“I told you that I wanted to repay you for all that you’ve done for me over the past couple of days,” Sherlock answered.  “Well, this is it,” he said, as he gave a wide, sweeping gesture about the room with his arm.  “I know that you can’t afford a decent place to stay, so I wanted to help you out in return.”

The realization of what Sherlock was offering finally dawned on John.  “You mean, you want me to be your flatmate?”

“Why not?” Sherlock asked.  “The flat will be more affordable split between the two of us, and staying here will keep you in London.”

Before John could formulate a thought, much less an answer, there was a ringing of the doorbell.  Mrs. Hudson hurried off back downstairs to answer the door as the visitor had begun knocking on it as well.  A moment later, a rather perplexed looking Detective Inspector Lestrade came up the stairs and into the flat.  He was carrying a large cardboard box.

“What is it, Lestrade?”  Sherlock asked.  “What do you need my help with this time?”

“There was an explosion this morning,” Lestrade said.  He set the box down on the coffee table and opened it.  “No one was hurt, but there was nothing left of the house.  And in the middle of where the parlor used to be was this strongbox.”  He indicated the contents of the cardboard box.  Sherlock and John looked inside.  “Inside of the box was this envelope,” Lestrade continued.  He retrieved a plastic evidence bag from the box.  It contained a simple, nondescript, regular sized white envelope with a single word scrawled across the front: “Sherlock.”

“Interesting,” Sherlock said.  “The house where this was found, where was it?”

“It was Noah Jones’s house.”

John could not contain the look of shock on his face.  Sherlock simply said, “Well, this is intriguing.”  Pulling on a pair of latex gloves, he carefully removed the envelope from the evidence bag.  He sliced open the end of the envelope with a knife.  Then he removed the folded paper inside and unfolded it for everybody to read.

“You’re getting in my way.                                                                                                                                                                     Take this as a friendly warning.                                                                                                                                                             Back off.                                                                                                                                                                                               If you don’t stop prying,                                                                                                                                                                       I will burn you.

 M"

“Fascinating,” Sherlock said, as he refolded the paper and inserted it back into the envelope.  He returned the envelope to the evidence bag and handed it to Lestrade.  Turning to John, he asked, “Care to join me on this case as well?”

John regarded him contemplatively.  Trying to elicit a response, Sherlock said three simple words.

“Could be dangerous.”

 

*************

 

**_La Fin_ **


End file.
